


Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Borderline crack, Fluff, Happy Sex, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>sherlock and john have a day off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

John loves these days. The day after having stumbled home too late at night for it to really be night anymore. The day before boredom has a chance to settle back in. The in-between days. It's the days he loves the most. Sleepy and settled with the faintest aroma of the domestic about them.

Sherlock's already gone when John wakes up, the heavy gold of afternoon light already pushing in past the curtains. There's a note on the pillow, scrawled spiky handwriting: _Molly has a liver. Back soon. Don't do anything without me._

John smiles as he shuffles through his routine. They had showered last night, accompanied by an adrenaline fuelled fumble against the tile wall. He brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face. He doesn't shave. Considers changing into proper clothing but discards the idea out of sheer laziness. He throws on the nearest dressing gown to hand—Sherlock's. It hangs past his hands and brushes his ankles as he makes tea. He debates making something to eat but in the end picks up a banana from the counter and carries it to the sofa where he wraps the too-large gown around him and sprawls gracelessly onto the leather. He fumbles with the remote for a while, realises he has no idea what day it is or what's supposed to be on. He leaves it on mute, content with the silence, listening for the door downstairs. When the screen flickers across a familiar scene he stops.

 

_Chim-chiminy, chim-chiminy_

_Chim-chim cheroo..._

 

He laughs out loud, the sound of it absurdly light in the quiet of the flat. This film, ridiculous and perfect. He flicks the volume, only a bar or two. The music slips in through the speakers and for a moment the flat is weirdly transformed, two separate parts of John's life pacing uncomfortably around each other before settling back in.

He watches Bert make chalk drawings on a studio constructed sidewalk and smiles. He drinks his tea and loses himself for a while. Penguins dance for far too long and barnyard animals sing accompaniment before John hears the outside door close and the quick tap of Sherlock's shoes on the stairs.

He comes into a sight a moment later, coat swirling around him and an intent look on his face and as soon as his eyes settle on the sofa, on John, John sees the world drain away, and Sherlock comes home.

“Hello, my love,” John says, and Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him and glances at the television.

“I see you're staying within your age group.”

“Git. Come here.”

Sherlock does, shedding his coat, and with a groan of tired muscles and not enough sleep he nudges his way onto the sofa, slipping easily into John's space, his head nuzzling like a cat into John's shoulder.

“How was the liver?” John asks.

Sherlock hums and pushes his way to John's neck. Searching lips find an ear and John sighs, hands sliding into winter-chilled hair.

“Useless,” Sherlock says, rumbling the word low into John's neck. “I shouldn't have left.”

“I agree. I expect full penance.”

Lips rasp against the stubble on his jaw and press a grin onto his mouth. “Demanding today.”

“Only when you make me ask.”

Fingers follow lips then trail downwards. The sound of tongues and too-quick breath, the wet trails of saliva. John finds himself on his back with Sherlock laying over him, burrowing into his neck, his chest, his belly, hands finding his waistband and pulling down. He lifts his hips, eyes closed to the sensation of soft cotton on over-heated skin, and he feels when the last tugging constriction gives way and he opens himself to Sherlock.

Sherlock uses his fingers first, but it's hurried and messy, lube spilling out of his hand to land on John's stomach and Sherlock swears quietly to himself as John yelps at the sudden cold against his skin. They're impatient. An hour wasted at the lab already. Sherlock gets to two fingers before he groans.

“I can't wait,” he breathes into John's body, at the place where his last rib meets the softer flesh of his abdomen.

“God,” John moans, and pushes down onto the fingers deep inside him. “Don't.”

Sherlock pulls them out and they both make a sound, regret and eagerness at once, and his hand is shaking as he runs a hand slick with lube over his penis, flushed and aching. But the time he lines himself up, John is panting, his hips jumping out of his control, and Sherlock has to put a hand on his stomach to keep him still before he can find the rim of that small opening with the head of his cock.

John feels it when it's there, waiting for it, and he presses down to find it and Sherlock lets him, thrusting forward in tiny increments to meet him, and when he slips past the first ring to find that fevered heat they both cry out loud.

“John.”

“Sherlock. Jesus. Sherlock. Hurry up.”

He tries, but  _god_ he is terrified, constantly, of hurting this fragile flesh beneath him, this gift he's been given. He pushes in, slowly, gradually, till John is cursing him softly and  _begging_ him to  _just get on with it already._

With a final thrust, Sherlock presses in and the sound John makes, open-mouthed and grateful, makes Sherlock moan out loud.

“God you're beautiful.”

“Sherlock. I swear to God.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh and sees John grin, a gorgeous, bright thing, and settling himself back, he starts to move his hips.

It's a violin solo, slow and aching. It's movement utterly pure, without a single pretence. They are building, but it's slow, both of them lingering in the quiet of the day, the stillness of the in-between. It's a steady rhythm that evens out into something they can both hold onto and Sherlock settles back, staring at this man, at this other life that is his.

And John...John...

John is giggling.

Sherlock isn't sure he's hearing right. But those kiss-reddened lips are twisted upwards and clamped tightly closed. A quiet high-pitched noise, far too familiar but decidedly out of place is emanating from behind them.

Sherlock frowns.

“John?”

John giggles again. Louder.

“John, what is it? Am I hurting you?”

John manages to shake his head, but he's losing the battle with self control and second later he opens his mouth and a full unmistakeable laugh comes falling out.

“John!” Sherlock snaps, getting annoyed now. He swears, if John is thinking about another one of those idiotic cat videos from the internet he'll disconnect the wireless for a month.

And then he hears it. The words between the laughter.

Or...he thinks it's a word.

“Su-per-cal-i-frag-il-is-tic-ex-pi-al-i-do-o-cious.”

“John?”

“Ev-en-though-the-sound-of-it-is-some-thing-quite-atro-o-cious.”

“John! What are you—”

“If-you-say-it-loud-e-nough-you'll-al-ways-sound-pre-co-o-cious.”

And that's when he hears it, from the television, someone singing...and he hears it even more clearly as John opens his mouth again, and he realises that his hips are moving, his penis sliding in and out of John, his skin slapping against John's arse, in the exact same rhythm, pervasive and hypnotic....

“SU-PER-CAL-I-FRAG-IL-IS-TIC-EX-PI-AL-I-DO-O-CIOUS!”

“Oh my God.”

He stutters to a stop and John gives a howl of laughter, almost disengaging them.

“John! It's not funny!”

“Oh God, Sherlock! Why have you stopped! You're losing the rhythm!”

“John, this is—John, what are you doing?”

The volume increases as John fumbles clumsily with the remote and oh god, it's everywhere now and John is giggling, high pitched and helpless and Sherlock doesn't know if he wants to flounce away or kiss him silent, so he does the next best thing. He starts to laugh instead, and he starts to move as he does, rolling chuckles vibrating through his chest as he starts to thrust into John again, and this time when the chorus comes around, he knows the words.

 

In Apartment A, Mrs Hudson sits at her kitchen table and sips tea. It's a quiet day. She likes quiet days, when the boys are safe upstairs and just happy to be there. It feels like Sundays used to feel, back before Sundays became just like every other day.

She hears their laughter first, coming through the vents, and she smiles slightly to herself, happy they can enjoy each other and themselves.

And then, moments later, she hears the song, loud and familiar and joyous and Mrs Hudson grins to herself and shakes her head, thinking how wonderful it is that two grown men can still sit down and enjoy a nice film.

 


End file.
